Witch Hazel

Gray sky; gray lane;
A flaw of rain;
Loud crows midway in air,
That go, and leave it bare.

But whence,
By the torn fence,
This hushèd thing with shape of flame?
And whither came,
This yellow gust blown down the grass
Of Hallowmas?

Holds the old Year, remembering,
A moment of last spring?
Or, far beyond this weather vext,
A moment of the next?
Holds he the twain in one,
The April gone, the April not begun? —
In these dim stalks, wind-lapped and bright,
Driven all one way like candlelight?